


The Line Separating The Living From The Dead

by earsXfeet6669



Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Period-Typical Sexism, discussion of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28059864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earsXfeet6669/pseuds/earsXfeet6669
Summary: Pierre and Dolokhov bond over the loss of Hélène.
Relationships: Fyodor "Fedya" Ivanovich Dolokhov/Elena "Hélène" Vasilyevna Kuragina (referenced)
Kudos: 3





	The Line Separating The Living From The Dead

“Hey, it’s the guy who shot me!” Exclaimed Dolokhov at the sight of Pierre. “Sup bitch, how’ve you been?” 

“Well, you’re regiment just freed me from being a prisoner of war, so, you know,” replied Pierre. 

“That fucking sucks for you, man.” 

“Sucks? No, this is the happiest I’ve ever been in my life! Isn’t it obvious?”

Dolokhov gave Pierre a once over with his blue orbs. Not a deliberately suggestive one, but Dolokhov was so in the habit of giving those, that it almost looked like one. Pierre looked thin, or thin for Pierre. He was still pretty fat. His hair had grown long and tangled, and his beard had grown bushy. His exposed feet (Dolokhov wasn’t sure why he was looking at Pierre’s feet, it’s not like he was Anatole) were incredibly dirty and calloused, as if he hadn’t worn shoes in months. Pierre looked gross. Dolokhov did not want to fuck him. 

“No, you look gross. I don’t even want to fuck you,” said Dolokhov. 

“Well, I feel amazing,” Pierre beamed.

Dolokhov glanced at Pierre again, still skeptical. “Prisoner of war? Better than being a prisoner of women, am I right?”

Pierre gave an awkward chuckle “I suppose?”

A look of alarm sprung onto Dolokhov’s face. “Oh fuck. That was in really poor taste.” 

“Yeah, I mean, I might joke about being a prisoner of war, but you really shouldn’t.”

“What? No! Who gives a fuck about that?”

Pierre eyed Dolokhov, puzzled “Then what do you give a fuck about?” Pierre was confused. Dolokhov was hardly the sensitive type, so if something was off limits to him it must be significant. 

“You know…” 

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No?”

“Oh fuck” Dolokhov looked at the ground sheepishly as he tried to think of the best way to phrase this deeply upsetting news. “Well, don’t shoot the messenger here, but you know your wife?”

Pierre raised his eyebrows. Dolokhov and his wife were never a good combination. 

“You know, Hélène, the one with the massive tits?”

Pierre knew Dolokhov had never been one for modesty, but this brashness still made him blush. “I- uh...” he stammered.

“Your wife? Remember? You shot me after I fucked her? She was absolutely dynamite in the sack, and--”

“Dolokhov,” Pierre interrupted, “I know who my wife is.” 

“Oh nice,” Dolokhov smirked, “She’s a fine piece of ass.”

Pierre sighed. “Sure.” 

“Anyway, she’s dead.” said Dolokhov as his smirk faded to a more solemn expression. 

The moment Dolokhov’s smirk disappeared from his face it seemed to appear on Pierre’s. “You were listening after all,” said Pierre, gazing fondly at the sky. 

“Listening to what? I didn’t kill your wife.”

“Not you,” Pierre pointed up. 

“The sky didn’t kill your wife either.”

“That’s not-” Pierre sighed, “Who did?”

“She did. Such a go getter that one. Didn’t wait around for someone else to kill her, just went ahead and did it herself.”

“Oh, that’s horrible. I’ve been trying to get that woman to kill herself for years. I can’t believe I didn’t get to send her over the edge. What did?” 

“Bitch was mad preggers.”

“Preggers? But she hated children! She once told me she’d rather end her own life then carry my child.”

“Then I guess this is one of the rare times Hélène was true to her word.”

“But it couldn’t have been my child. I haven’t been intimate with my wife in years. We weren’t even on speaking terms after I tried to kill her brother.”

Dolokhov gave a gloating laugh. “Pussy! I fucked your wife all the time. Even after you tried to kill her brother. Like immediately after. I think that might have been a turn on for her.” 

“Perhaps you were the father then.” 

“Apparently,” said Dolokhov as he procured a baby that Pierre had not noticed was strapped to his back, “I’m not sure I buy it, though. Who knows who that whore was shacking up with?” Dolokhov looked at his supposed daughter, and addressed her in a cutesy voice Pierre had never once heard Dolokhov use, or even imagined he ever would “Was someone’s mummy a whore? She sure was!” The baby giggled, but Dolokhov only grew morose. He looked away wistfully and whispered “She sure was.” 

Pierre watched the peculiar sight of Dolokhov with an infant child,  _ his wife’s infant child,  _ with his mouth agape. He eyed the baby. She had her father’s blue orbs, but did not yet have her mother’s massive tits.

“Anyway, this is baby Yelena.” Said Dolokhov, seeming to have recovered from his brief fit of grief. 

“After her mother? Weird person to name a baby after, but alright.”

“No, her name is Yelena, not Hélène.”

“Hélène’s short for Yelena.”

“Hélène was kinda tall though.” 

“Never mind,” Pierre sighed. “Why do you have the child?”

Dolokhov shrugged, “Figured if I kept her around I might be able to scam some inheritance out of Hélène’s bitch dad when he croaks.”

“No- I- alright.” 

“Why? You want her?” said Dolokhov as he offered the baby to Pierre. 

“I think I’ve had enough Kuragins for one lifetime.”

“She’s a Dolokhova now.”

“Is that better?”

Dolokhov shrugged “Less incest.” 

Pierre probably would have inquired as to what exactly Dolokhov meant by that if he were not lost in Yelena’s tiny blue orbs that matched her father's so. Dolokhov pulled Yelena back towards him a bit too roughly, much to Pierre’s dismay, and Yelena’s as she started to cry. In a soft whisper he said “Shut the fuck up,” and she calmed down. 

“Are you sure you’re fit to be a father?” 

“Are you?”

“No, I’m really not sure you’re fit.” 

“Fine!” exclaimed Dolokhov, clearly offended “You raise her!” Said Dolokhov as he shoved little Yelena into Pierre’s arms. 

Pierre stared at the pouting child, her face all scrunched up as if she was about to cry, then looked up to see Dolokhov making the exact same face. “Are you alright?”

“I miss her.” 

“Here,” said Pierre as he offered the baby back to Dolokhov, “You can have her back.” 

“Not her. Her mother.” 

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Pierre nodded, attempting to understand how anyone could miss his bitch wife. 

Dolokhov clung to Pierre. “She was so fucking hot,” Dolokhov sobbed into his shoulder. 

Pierre wasn’t sure why, but he found himself starting to tear up. “She really was,” he whispered wistfully. Pierre found himself gazing into Dolokhov’s blue orbs, just as he had Yelena’s. “You’re so fucking hot,” he said slowly, only realizing what he was saying when he said it, and that he meant it after. 

Dolokhov gazed back at Pierre. Suddenly, the ragged prisoner of war look really started to do something for him, so he leaned in and gave Pierre’s dirty lips a smooch. 


End file.
